But the Air is Running Out
by fangirlgonewild
Summary: TV-Show based. Blair surprises even herself. Spoilers through 2.05 "The Serena Also Rises" rating for language


Light bounces off the crystal tumbler in his hand, shimmering in the amber liquid. Blair watches the tainted rainbow dance across the floor, occasionally sipping from her own glass. She isn't sure exactly what time it is, nor is she entirely positive about what time he arrived. These details are unimportant, lost in the haze filling the room; the haze just strong enough to cloud her judgment when a well-dressed bastard buzzed her intercom.

He doesn't speak and neither does she, the only sounds in the room are their sighs. They are equally depressed and seeking in one another an excuse to not be alone. She used to tell a certain blonde that drinking unaccompanied is the first sign of alcoholism. Serena was usually too far gone to care, much more interested in whether or not Blair was going to help her pour this wine than ponder her own state of mind.

Blair stands, inhaling sharply as she balances precariously on jet-black heels. Chuck doesn't look up, but as she brushes past him he puts a hand on her arm.

"The evening is over, Bass," she states, if a little forcedly.

"No kiss goodnight?"

She's not interested in playing this game, and she can tell he isn't either. Their respective evenings have been all about what's _not_, drawing lines with velvet ropes and defining what _isn't_ anymore—or never was to begin with.

"Sorry," he murmurs, tossing back the last of his scotch with his free hand, "s'habit."

He meets her gaze for only a second, and she sees something in his eyes that almost drives her to ask what happened tonight. She tells herself that he'd be too proud to answer, even if she had the courage to form the question.

Instead, she delicately extracts herself from his grip and climbs the stairs to her room, leaving him to show himself to the elevator doors.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Blair wakes to a house blissfully empty of mothers and maids. Leaving her hair unbrushed and her makeup undone, she wanders to the kitchen. Over a bowl of lowfat vanilla yogurt and a glass of pulp-free orange juice, she scans the reviews from the only section of the paper that matters. Words like _smashing success_ and _rising star_ raise her eyebrows, but her hands don't shake as she sets the pages aside.

Calmly and carefully, she evaluates her wardrobe, sifting through each piece with a routine precision. This is a biannual ritual, deciding what will work into her look for the coming season and what has failed to make the cut.

To her surprise, she finds that this examination feels no different than any previous one. The piles on her bed fall as they always do, and when she looks in the mirror her reflection stares back with the same critical eye she always has.

She waits, expecting something to uncurl inside her, some nameless rage that will cause her lash out, breaking the girl before her into a thousand tiny pieces. She pauses; inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale.

Five minutes later, she's still waiting.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Blair is sitting on the stairs of the Met, eating an apple and reading for history when a shadow falls across her. She looks up, more out of curiosity than defiance.

"Dan Humphrey."

"Um, hi."

He's not the person she expected to see, but she isn't surprised to find him standing before her. He bends, as if about to sit, which prompts her to stand.

"I may be down, Humphrey, but I'm hardly a social pariah."

"Of course," he says, rolling his eyes in a way that tells her that he _still doesn't get it_.

"Can I help you with something?"

"I just have a question."

"Which is?"

"What are you—I mean, do you have…" he trails off as Serena appears, stepping gracefully from a limousine onto the sidewalk. He swallows, "a plan?"

She follows his gaze, waiting a moment before asking, "A plan?"

"You know, revenge." He does something with his face that could either be a grin or a smirk, "The Blair Waldorf specialty."

"Not really. And even if I did, I hardly think I'd discuss it with you."

Tearing her eyes from Constance's new queen, she turns toward him, her eyes searching his face.

"I'm not going to be your hit-man."

He's confused, and she's disgusted.

"You want me to do it for you, to libel, slander, and drag her down. If you want to take out Serena, do it yourself. I'm sick of being everyone's go-to girl because I'm willing to get my hands dirty," the words come out in a rush, and she's exhilarated, unstoppable, "I tried to will myself to care about what she did, don't you think I tried? She took everything I defined myself by—and I can't, I don't hate her for it."

She's smiling, almost laughing, because it's so simple. How easy is it to live your life when no one's watching your every move?

"I can breathe now," she says softly, " I can breathe."

She jumps slightly when Dan speaks—she'd forgotten he was there.

"I read about these craftsmen in China, they make these vases. Really beautiful, ornamental—expensive things. They cast them in bronze and then decorate them with tiles and glass, but they cover the vases in so much sealant that they're unbreakable."

She thinks he might be trying to compliment her, albeit in a weird, pretentious way.

"Everything breaks if you throw it against the wall hard enough," she informs him.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and walks purposefully away, passing Chuck, who stands glowering at Dan. She tosses a smile at him, full of promise and danger. She knows that sooner or later, she'll get tired of invisibility. Sooner or later, she will want the words she speaks to mean something again. She also knows that when that time comes, she won't be standing on the steps of the Met, waiting for something to happen—she'll be off doing what needs to be done.

For the moment though, she's just taking a breath.


End file.
